The birthday.
The promise.
She sat across from him.
“Somebody else does.”
He shook his head.
“It was mine.”
“No.”
The Cashier looked toward the photograph.
“It was hers.”
The Biker stared.
That was true.
He had mistaken carrying the promise for owning it.
The Cashier continued.
“She gave it to you.”
“You gave part to me.”
“Other girls gave parts to somebody else.”
He looked toward her.
“So what?”
“So promises can outlive who carries them first.”
The Biker smiled faintly.
“You work for a nonprofit now.”
“You sound unbearable.”
“I learned from you.”
Two years later, his health declined again.
Heart.
Lungs.
Age.
Nothing immediately fatal.
Enough to make time visible.
On his daughter’s thirtieth? Wait original current year daughter's thirtieth when story began, so two years later 32. Let's track: story began when daughter would be 30. Time passed maybe 3 + 2 + etc. Could be well into his 70s now. That's okay. Continue.
The Cashier—no longer a cashier for years, but he still called her that—visited him one afternoon.
He sat in the garage beside the old motorcycle.
“Selling it?”
she asked.
He looked offended.
“Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t ridden in a year.”
“Motorcycle doesn’t know that.”
She laughed.
On the workbench sat twelve small envelopes.
“What are those?”
He hesitated.
“Instructions.”
Her smile disappeared.
“For what?”
He pointed.
“Open after I’m dead.”
“No.”
The Biker raised an eyebrow.
“That is not how death works.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“You were bossy at a register. You remain bossy.”
The Cashier turned away.
Her eyes burned.
The Biker’s voice softened.
“Hey.”
She looked back.
“I’m not dying tonight.”
“You don’t know.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Neither do you.”
She sat.
He slid the envelopes away.
“Fine.”
“Later.”
Silence.
Then the Cashier asked:
“Are you scared?”
The Biker looked toward the motorcycle.
“Yes.”
She had expected denial.
That made the answer hurt more.
“Of dying?”
“Some.”
“What else?”
“Forgetting her.”
The Cashier immediately understood.
His daughter.
The Biker tapped his forehead.
“More things go missing.”
“Names.”
“Dates.”
“Sometimes I look at that photo and I can’t remember what shirt she wore the day it was taken.”
The Cashier said, “That’s okay.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He looked angry.